


Sweet Dreams

by HandsomeManExpress (DangerousCommieSubversive)



Series: That One High School AU [2]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Apologies, Awkward Flirting, M/M, Teacher-Student Relationship, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 20:29:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5219750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerousCommieSubversive/pseuds/HandsomeManExpress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad's first up-close-and-personal encounter with Dean Ambrose frightened him quite badly, and he's trying to get a handle on himself again. Granted, now Dean's friends are getting in his face, so it's not exactly easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Dreams

Brad leaves the school and doesn’t look for Dean Ambrose.

He hurries across the parking lot and gets in his tiny car and drives away from the school and doesn’t look for Dean Ambrose.

He gets to the best pizza place in town and he’s still, with some determination, _not looking for Dean Ambrose or thinking about sucking his dick._

He orders a calzone bigger than his head. It’ll do him for dinner tonight, and lunch tomorrow, and maybe another dinner if he runs into Dean Ambrose mid-day and starts thinking about sucking his dick and has to go hide in the teacher’s lounge splashing cold water in his face instead of eating. The middle-aged woman running the pizza place register takes a look at him, coos worriedly—at what, he’s not sure about—and then gives him his Mountain Dew for free.

"You look like you got girl trouble," she says, patting him on the cheek. "You go sit down, your order’ll be ready in twenty minutes."

Brad’s too embarrassed to do anything but mumble an awkward thank-you and then duck into a corner booth to wait.

And think about Dean Ambrose. Of course.

Because suddenly that’s what his life is.

The booth creaks. Brad looks up and chokes on his Mountain Dew.

Seth Rollins waves to him, grinning his crooked grin, and Roman Reigns says, “What’s up.” He sounds oddly good-natured for someone who’s about to kick Brad’s ass. “…dude, are you ok?”

Brad recovers from choking and coughing enough to say, weakly, “I’m fine. I’m fine. Do you _normally_ surprise teachers like this?”

"Well, _no,_ but you’re not really a teacher, right, you’re like an assistant or something.”

"I’m a teacher! Student teachers are teachers!"

"Yeah, but you’re still a student. So we can sit with you."

Brad stares at Roman, trying desperately to figure out whether the school’s star running back is fucking with him. Roman’s expression is frustratingly guileless.

Just as he thinks it might be safe and starts taking another sip of his Mountain Dew, though, Seth Rollins says, “So did you suck Dean’s dick or what?” and he’s choking again.

This time they do have to pound on his back. Which hurts, but apparently they mean well?

When he’s done choking he lets out one more nervous cough and says, “What. What gives you the impression that that’s something I would do?”

Seth raises an eyebrow and then holds up his phone. On the screen is—a text message, with a poorly-shot photo of Brad grading papers in the detention classroom and the caption “im fuking going for it and ur gonna owe me 20.”

"Don’t do it, man." Roman reaches across the table and takes _his soda_ and has a sip, only pausing afterward to say, “You don’t mind, right? Anyway, not like he’s not a _blast_ in the sack but he’s such an asshole when he wins bets, we’d never hear the end of it.”

"But also," Seth interjects before Roman can keep talking, "if you _hurt_ him, we’ll kick your ass. Roman, do the face so he knows we’re serious.”

Roman blinks. “Which face?”

"The I’m-gonna-eat-you face."

"…you sure that’s the one you want me to do?"

"That’s what I _said,_ isn’t it?”

Roman eyes Seth dubiously for a moment, then nods.

The smoldering look that he shoots at _Brad_ _goes_ straight into Brad’s eyes and down his spine before stopping in his crotch and setting up shop. Brad feels his face go hot and tries to think unsexy thoughts.

Seth frowns, glances over at Roman, and yelps, “Not _that_ face!”

"You said you wanted the I’m-gonna-eat-you face. Did you mean the I’m-gonna- _bite_ -you face? Because that one’s different.”

“ _That_ one.” Seth is bright red. “Not…not the one you’re doing. That one’s _private._ ”

"That’s what I figured, but you seemed sure." Roman rolls his neck. "Anyway."

The _new_ look _definitely_ makes Brad feel threatened. But somehow no less turned on.

"I’ll," he says, briefly at a loss for words. "I’ll. Um. Keep that in mind. If anything ever happens. Which. It won’t. Because that would be unethical and get me fired."

The woman at the counter shouts, “Sausage and pepper calzone! You’re up, honey!”

 _Oh thank god._ “I’ll. See you two in class. Do your homework.” And he stumbles out of the booth, grabs his calzone at the counter, and hurries out.

He stays up late grading papers that night, nearly falls asleep in his half-calzone, and doesn't think about Dean Ambrose or either of his friends.

* * *

 

Detention time again, and Mr. Helmsley is nowhere to be found, and so Brad finds himself in the unenviable position of supervising alone again and hoping that Principal McMahon doesn't catch him and get him in trouble.

Just one person in detention.

Just Dean.

Sprawled in his chair with his skinny ankles sticking out of his too-short jeans and a pencil in his hand, drawing obscene doodles in his notebook. Watching with a lion’s interest as Brad walks in, set down his papers, and sits down at the desk at the front of the room.

Getting up and walking towards Brad with a hunter’s sway-hipped gait, sitting down on Brad’s desk with his feet on the edges of Brad’s chair and saying, softly, “Hey, baby. How’s it _going?_ ”

Brad says, breathless, “You’re my _student._ ”

"But you’ve wanted me for _years,_ " Dean murmurs conspiratorially, and for a flickering moment he looks like the loud, drunk sixteen-year-old who’d crashed the senior end-of-year-party and made a scene trying to start fights and demanding for some reason that they put on "Sweet Caroline," and who Brad had wanted _desperately_ to kiss. “So out _there_ I’m your student.” He runs his fingers down the edge of Brad’s jaw, grips his chin, tips his face upwards. “In _here_ you’re _my_ baby.”

Brad kisses him, dry-mouthed and desperate, and wonders absently as arousal lit him on fire how he’d managed to get through the whole school day without remembering to put on a shirt.

"You be good, baby," Dean says against his lips, "and I’ll treat you right."

"Whatever you say." Brad starts undoing Dean’s belt.

"Roll cameras," says Roman to Seth, in the corner of the room.

"You see, Bradley, I had a good reason to be worried about Dean cornering you," says Mr. Regal from the doorway.

Brad gets the belt open, unzips Dean’s fly—

—and wakes in a cold sweat, staring at the ceiling of his tiny bedroom and thinking about Dean Ambrose.

* * *

 

He considers calling in sick. It wouldn’t be unjustified; after the…uh…dream, he’d lost half an hour trying to make his hard-on go away through sheer force of will and another fifteen minutes masturbating furiously to the tangentially dream-related thought of Dean Ambrose crawling into his bed and fucking his face, and then had spent most of the rest of the night feeling hideously guilty about wanting to sleep with a student and hoping desperately that Dean never, _ever_ , actually addressed him as “baby.” At least, not where anyone else could see them.

It’s already hard enough working with Mr. Helmsley. The guy just has an _atmosphere_ that, on some days, made Brad want to call him “sir” and beg to get bent over the nearest convenient table (and what the hell was wrong with this school that it had so many hot teachers, _that_ was what he wanted to know). If he was going to start having these awkward fantasies about _juvenile delinquents who happened to get in his face,_ then he might as well just sink into the earth now and not come back out until they were all long gone.

(A stupid part of his brain says, _if it’s this bad just with Dean, what would it be like if Dean’s_ **buddies** _tried that on you? What if Seth called you that? Or_ **Roman?** He actually whimpers.)

He doesn’t end up calling in sick, because the only thing worse than _being_ horny around Mr. Helmsley was getting snapped at by Mr. Helmsley and _getting_ horny. A semi can be politely ignored; a sudden raging erection when his mentor teacher was two inches away from him telling him to “get his act together” might raise eyebrows.

Brad spends the entire drive to the high school wondering how going for a secondary education major could have caused his life to jump right off the rails and drop into frustrated-sexual-tension hell.

* * *

 

Classes go fine—actually, they go really well. He eats the other half of his calzone for lunch while talking to Mr. Regal about the older man’s secret passion for show business history (carnivals in particular). Mr. Helmsley is _not_ supervising detention. All he’s supervising is the wrestling team’s afternoon practice, and he shoos Brad away with a half-amiable “go home” before marching into the weight room to have a talk with Randy Orton about whether or not he’s using steroids again. Brad heads out to his car in high spirits with his folio under his arm, trying to think of something to actually _cook_ for dinner.

Dean Ambrose is sitting on the hood of his car, reclined against the windshield with his head tipped back like a dog sunning itself in a patch of light. “Hey, _Brad._ ”

Brad considers running away but then realizes that it’s _his car._ If he runs away then he won’t be able to get home.

"It’s come to my attention," Dean says, not opening his eyes, "that I might have acted like a huge douchebag yesterday and scared the shit out of you."

The shock of this statement actually snaps Brad out of his initial fear reaction, and now he’s just irritated. “What could have _possibly_ given you that idea?”

"Seth and Roman said you ran off like, and I _quote,_ ‘a scared rabbit’ when they sat down to have a _totally unauthorized_ talk with you. Although apparently you also got to see Roman’s let’s-have-sex face, so that’s fun. So I guess I gotta apologize."

Brad eyes him suspiciously. “You want something, don’t you.”

Dean clutches dramatically at his chest. “ _Teach._ I’m _wounded._ ”

"What do you want, Dean? And if you say you want…you want…"

"Nah, I just need a lift into town. I missed the bus."

"Doesn’t Roman have a car? Couldn’t he drive you?"

"He’s got football practice."

"And Seth?"

"Seth said he wouldn’t drive me anywhere until I apologized. Said you wouldn’t be any fun if I just went and scared you off." Dean’s sneer says volumes about what he thinks of that.

Brad stares at him for a moment and then sighs. “Just don’t screw around with the radio, ok? And don’t _sing._ ”

A couple of minutes later Dean is slouching next to him in the car, seat pushed all the way back so he can stretch his legs out in the footwell. His backpack is crumpled on the back seat, and he’s tossing his pack of gum lazily from hand to hand as Brad drives.

Brad says, trying to sound conversational and not nervous, “Where do you need me to drop you off?”

"Anywhere’s fine, I got nothing to do. Just didn’t wanna hang around school all day. And anyway I gotta figure out what to do for dinner." Dean squints at the radio. "This thing’s _ancient,_ where’d you get it?”

"Have you called your parents? Do they know you’re going to be out?"

Dean…flinches, and then grins immediately afterward like he didn’t. “They don’t give a shit. I do whatever the fuck I want.”

"Wait, you said you needed to figure out…" Brad frowns, although he keeps his eyes on the road. "Are they on vacation or something? Are they not home?"

A derisive snort in response. “Whether my mom’s _ever_ home is all a matter of perspective. But yeah. Dad’s out.”

"But you’ve got food at home, right?"

Dean doesn’t answer. He just stares out the window.

After a moment Brad says, “Do you like stir-fry?”

Another snort, and he glances over and Dean is grinning like he’s said the funniest thing in the world. “What, am I getting the full girlfriend experience?”

Brad scowls. “Oh, come _on,_ do you have to— _no._ I just think you should have something for _dinner._ ”

"Like you’re _not_ gonna blow me afterwards in the back seat of this fine vehicle.”

"I can stop the car right now. You can walk the rest of the way to town."

"So is this Chinese restaurant stir-fry, or are you saying _you_ wanna _cook_ me something?”

"Ordering from a restaurant is expensive."

"You make stir-fry with water chestnuts?"

"Uh…normally I use bamboo shoots."

"I like water chestnuts." Dean slides down in his seat. "And those mini corns, I like those."

Brad glances at him. “Is that a ‘yes, please, Mr. Maddox, I would like home cooked stir-fry for dinner’ I’m hearing?”

Dean groans and drags a hand down his face. “Yes, please, Mr. Maddox. I’d _really_ like some stir-fry for dinner.”

"And no trying to get me to…to…" Brad’s face went red.

"And I promise I won’t try to get you to suck my dick."

"Stir-fry it is."

* * *

 

He makes Dean wait in the car while he runs into the Asian market to get stir-fry supplies, on the entire reasonable grounds that

 

  1. Dean has homework reading he should be doing anyway

  2. people will talk if they're seen grocery shopping together.




 

Dean rolls his eyes at both of these but _does_ still extract his backpack from the back seat, pull out one of his textbooks, prop up his feet on the dashboard, and start reading. Brad hurries into the store, grabs a basket, and gets enough stuff to make at _least_ six servings of stir-fry, because honestly he has no idea how much Dean is going to eat.

Dean actually seems to like his apartment, when they get there. “This place is...cute.”

“It's kinda tiny.” Brad scratches the back of his head. “I can't really afford anything bigger.”

“Nah, it's nice. It looks like...it looks like a place someone lives in.”

Stir-fry or no, it's a few hours before dinner time, so at Brad's insistence they settle down to get some work done. Brad grabs the last of the ungraded papers and notes for the module he's working on and takes the couch. Dean digs a worn school copy of _Johnny Got His Gun_ out of his backpack and hunches over it, curled up on the threadbare armchair Brad got at the dump. Totally normal. Just...just a student and a teacher, spending time together.

Not weird at all.

“So what'd you think of the face?”

Brad blinks, coming out of a grading trance. “What face?”

“The I'm-gonna-eat-you face.” Dean peers over the top of his book. “Normally Roman only busts that one out when we're _alone._ ”

“It's very...stirring.” _When they're alone. Seth said the look was private. Are they all..._ papers. Grading papers. Not thinking about what Dean and his friends do in their private time.

“That's one way to put it, yeah.”

When it's too difficult to focus on his work, though, when the intrusive mental images get to be too much, he stands up. “Time for dinner.”

Dean looks up from his book again. “You need any help?”

“Can you cut up vegetables?”

“Yeah, sure.”

* * *

 

The first bite of stir-fry looks satisfyingly revelatory. Dean shovels in a mouthful, probably burning himself in the process, and goes very still. “Thif if delifious.”

“Glad you like it.” Brad has the TV turned to SyFy, and some terrible movie is playing while they talk. “There's tons, so if you want seconds or...you want seconds.”

Dean is _already_ going back for seconds, with an off-hand, “ _I'd_ suck _your_ dick to eat like this more.”

“Dean...” Brad hides his face behind his bowl. “Look, after we've both eaten, we need to talk.”

They don't talk for the rest of the meal. Dean looks like he wants to laugh. He also takes both of their bowls into the kitchen, which surprises Brad until he comes back and sits down on the couch instead of returning to the armchair, almost too close for comfort. “So. Whadda we talking about, _Mr. Maddox?_ ”

Brad shifts away nervously. “Look, is there a, a _reason_ why you've suddenly decided to try to... _seduce_ me?”

Dean actually laughs out loud. “ _Seduce?_ Nah, this's just me being a pain in the ass. For fun.”

“You think it's _fun?_ ”

“Yeah. I'm bored, you're kinda cute, why not. If I was trying to _seduce_ you—” and suddenly he's _very_ close, “I'd do things totally differently.”

Brad stares at him. Has to stare _up_ at him—Dean's leaning in, up on his knees a bit, his expression intent and patient as Brad says, stupidly, “Really?”

“If I was trying to _seduce_ you,” Dean murmurs, “I'd be talking about how _good_ you always look. Nice clothes, nice _hair—_ ” he traces a loose strand down the side of Brad's face. “Mm. Not even handsome. _Pretty._ If I was trying to seduce you I'd talk about how _pretty_ you are. How the way you bite your lip when you're thinking makes me wanna see if you bite it like that when you're coming. Maybe I'd lean in real close, like this,” with a demonstration that Brad doesn't want to fend off, “so you can feel my lips while I'm talking,” which Brad can, “and tell you that I want to find that out for myself. I want to make you feel _good,_ just so I can hear you say my name.” His fingertips trace that loose strand of hair again. “Maybe I'd get _you_ to touch _me—_ ” he runs his fingers down Brad's arms, gently, tugs forward so that Brad's hands land on his waist and he's pulled in even closer, he moves so he's _straddling_ Brad's _lap,_ “so you know you can touch me _however_ you like, baby.”

 _Baby._ Brad shivers, his eyes closing involuntarily. He knows Dean can feel it.

“Is that what you like, baby?” There's a suppressed laugh in Dean's voice, but it's buried under layers of smolder. “So maybe I'd treat you like you're delicate. I can do delicate for you, baby. I can do sweet.”

“Dean.” Brad doesn't open his eyes, because he's afraid that if he looks he'll lose his grip completely. “This is... _really_ inappropriate.”

“Tell me to stop and I'll stop, then. Just telling you what I'd do.” He can still feel Dean's mouth moving against his cheek. “But aren't you curious about what I'd do _next?_ ”

Brad makes the mistake of opening his eyes, and the intensity of Dean's gaze is like a bolt of lightning. Sexy lightning. He's pretty sure he manages not to make a little whimpering noise, but only through back-breaking self control.

“Because next I _wouldn't_ kiss you. I'd make you wait. Because I wanna figure out what you _like._ ” Dean shifts, so that his lips are brushing the side of Brad's _neck_ instead of his face. “You know, find out if you've got any of those _hot_ spots, the ones that just get you _going._ ”

“Dean...” He is actually getting _dangerously_ close to one of those spots.

“But of course, that's just what I _would_ do. You know, if I _was_ actually trying to seduce you.” Dean stands up, smirking, and sits back down in the armchair.

The space that's suddenly between them feels very cold, but Brad's not sure if it's because his heat is broken again or because his face feels so hot that he might light on fire. “You've been fucking with me this whole time.”

“Not as much as I'd _like_ to be.” Dean's smirk gets bigger. “But we were just talking about that.”

Brad lets out a long breath that he didn't notice he'd been holding in and says, “Two months.”

“Two months _what,_ teach?”

“Two months until the end of the semester.”

Dean leans forward in his seat, eyebrows raising. “Which I should give a shit about why?”

“Because when the semester ends I won't be your teacher any more. In _any_ way. I won't even work for your school. And if this is _actually_ something that you want to happen and you're not just tormenting me to be an asshole we can talk then.” Brad pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to think cold thoughts. “You should call Roman or Seth so they can come pick you up, you can't stay here overnight. You'll get me fired.”

Dean grins, just as there's the sound of a car horn outside. “Yeah, I sent Roman a text half an hour ago.”

* * *

 

Brad waits until Roman's car is safely off his street again, with Dean Ambrose in the back of it, and then forces himself to work on his module for another half an hour before finally giving in and retreating to his bedroom. He fumbles his fly open with shaking hands, shoves his underwear down, and leans back against his pillow with his eyes shut tight and strokes himself while he thinks about Dean in his lap, lips on his throat and then moving down, and he can't stop thinking about how Dean's tousled head would look between his legs.

His phone buzzes right as he's about to come, and he's so startled that he actually does grab it on instinct. He doesn't recognize the number, but the fact that it's apparently in his phone as “Daddy” makes his ears go red. And then he flicks open the text message, and there's a selfie. Dean, winking at the camera—at _him—_ with a devilish smirk on his face and Seth laughing in the background.

[Sweet dreams, baby.]

Brad jolts and comes on his hand.


End file.
